


My body is a dead language (yet you still pronounce each word perfectly)

by lucyrinner



Category: Figure Skating RPF
Genre: F/M, Post PeyongChang, lazy dinners and dancing in kitchens, lil' angst and a whole lot of fluff, ridiculous amounts of pining, we know Tessa can probably quote the entirety of P&P
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-04-08
Updated: 2018-04-29
Packaged: 2019-04-19 14:18:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14239101
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lucyrinner/pseuds/lucyrinner
Summary: They have choreographed entire free dances right here, in front of his oven, by the light of his microwave.





	1. settling for target practice

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic of firsts- first RPF, first time caring enough to google facts about a Canadian hockey team, and first time writing the word “eh” unironically. This is what these two do to me (along with the extreme and tangential Pride and Prejudice references. Oops!)
> 
> This is inspired by Sierra DeMulder’s amazing poem “Unrequited Love Poem (on watching someone you love, love someone else)”. I absolutely fell in love with it and these two came to my head as soon as I heard it. If you like it, please check out the full poem and her other works!

**_You will be out with friends_ **

**_when the news of her existence_ **

**_will be accidentally spilled all over_ **

**_your bar stool._ **

**_Respond calmly_ **

**_as if it was only a change in weather,_ **

**_a punchline you saw coming._ **

 

Not many things take Tessa Virtue by surprise.

There have only been a few times, in fact, where things haven’t gone her way- and while they’ve been glaring and large and unforgettable (leg surgery and silver medals, anybody?) she can admit that her poker face is better than most. She would credit it to the years of media experience and staying focused in the face of competition, but her mother would say she’s had the skill ever since she could stand up in her skates.

Handling the unexpected is her thing.

So when a woman with dark brown hair, blue eyes, and a shot of whiskey in her hand moves onto Scott the moment they walk into the bar, she is not fazed, suspecting a fangirl who’s had a few too many. She moves to gently pull him aside, always protecting her partner, until she sees Scott’s arm slowly and timidly move to the small of her back, brushing the skin that is revealed by the woman’s bright crop top.

“Hey babe!” She gets on her tiptoes to crow into his ear, dangerously close to spilling her glass. “Oh, I’m so glad you brought her!”

Tessa locks eyes with Scott despite his best effort, glancing everywhere in the room but her. Her stomach does this weird dropping thing and there’s no time for him to explain, but his gaze is apologetic when the brunette holds out her hand for Tessa to shake. “I’m Stephanie! It’s so nice to finally meet you- Scott’s been meaning to introduce us for forever.”

 Tessa nods wordlessly for a few seconds until she finds her voice. “Of course, it’s so nice to meet you!” She searches her brain for anything, and lands on the low-hanging fruit. “Where’d you guys meet?” _Who are you? Why are you here? Why are Scott’s cheeks red and why is his hand still on your back?_

 They walk over to the row of barstools while Stephanie delightfully talks about a mutual friend setting them up over coffee a month back, and the delicious scones he bought her and _what was that place called, Scott, where we went for dinner a few nights later, over on North Street? You have to try it, Tessa!_

The sticky, dark brown wood of the bar has never looked so interesting to her.

When Stephanie excuses herself to go to the bathroom, his mouth is the first to open, beating her questions by a second. “I’m so sorry, I’ve been meaning to tell you, I swear-”

“Scott,” she stops him before she can let herself think about what he’s saying. “It’s okay, really.”

“I didn’t want to surprise you with this.”

_Too late,_ Tessa remarks only in her mind, knowing that a comment like that wouldn’t be appreciated. “It’s okay. I’m glad you’re happy. I’m not your mother, right? I don’t need to approve of every girl you date- she seems really great, though.” He doesn’t notice the hand that tightens ever so slightly on her glass, or the effort she puts into making sure her eye doesn’t twitch, a tick that would effectively give her away completely. She pauses before continuing.

“You know you don’t have to hide stuff like this from me, right? We both knew this would happen- can’t be just us two forever, right?”

Scott looks into her eyes for a few moments, words on the tip of his tongue but never leaving his lips. Resigned (and maybe a little disappointed), he offers her a smile. “Thanks, T. It means a lo-”

“Anyone up for a game?” Stephanie’s returned, and she’s gesturing to the pool table that’s been drawing Scott’s gaze all night. Tessa jumps back from him quickly, already grabbing a stick from the wall before he can say another word. She’s grateful for the distraction, and for the opportunity to hit something. “Sure, why not? You break, Stephanie.”

Steph (which is what he calls her halfway through the game, and it feels like a one-two to the gut) manages to sink a ball with a particularly difficult shot, and casually plants a kiss on Scott’s lips in celebration.

A week later, Tessa leaves for Toronto for a few days to do brand deals and see fashion shows, and manages to only text him back after a socially acceptable amount of time has passed.

(It feels like a dirty, passive-aggressive kind of revenge that their psychologist would call unproductive, but it’s more satisfying than she would like to admit.)

 

**_When he calls you, ignore the hundreds of ropes_ **

**_untangling themselves in your stomach._ **

**_You are the best friend again. He invites_ **

**_you over for dinner and you say yes_ **

**_too easily. Remind yourself this isn’t special,_ **

**_it’s only dinner, everyone has to eat._ **

**_When he greets you at the door, do not think_ **

**_for one second you are the reason_ **

**_he wore cologne tonight._ **

**_Someone told you once a soulmate_ **

**_is not the person that makes you the happiest,_ **

**_but the one who makes you feel the most._ **

**_Who can conduct your heart to bang the loudest,_ **

**_can drag you, giggling forgiveness from the cellar they locked you in._ **

 

**_It has always been him._ **

 

Stephanie is incredibly nice.

She’s intelligent, easy to like, knows her Hall and Oates better than most, and can even beat both of them at pool. An hour in or so, Tessa’s pretty sure she heard her rattle off some complicated hockey stats to the bartender in a friendly conversation about the game that was turned on.

It’s the recollection of this that stops Tessa from gripping Scott’s hand as tight as she normally would when they take the ice the next time, a few weeks later, with the intention of stopping them from getting too rusty.

(Jordan had laughed when her sister told her this over the phone yesterday. “As if you two could get _rusty_. Twenty bucks you nail a full set of twizzles the first time, deal?”)

She got up this morning barely being able to stomach the idea of being in his arms again- which is crazy. It’s literally her job, or, used to be.

“What’s wrong?” Scott asks her a few minutes into their slow, relaxed waltz. “Is it your legs? Did you not stretch enough?” His urgent tone is enough for her to take pity on him, putting a comforting hand on his shoulder. Post-retirement, he’s taken up coaching younger kids, and it’s only increased his capacity to worry.

“No, sorry, I’m fine. Just getting back into the swing of things.”

He doesn’t believe her excuse but accepts it all the same, joining her hand with his once again to slowly guide her around the rink, gliding next to the boards. He can’t shake the feeling of a high school social complete with a couple’s skate, lights turned down low, disco ball turning, and a girl and a boy looking anywhere but each other.

Finally, he presses play on some music, and it gets easier, still feels a little bit like breathing.

They naturally begin to move with each other to the tune of a slower song Tessa doesn’t recognize, but it’s perfect for the step sequences they run and the turns they flow into. He can’t help but gasp quietly when he picks her up, her thighs immediately winding around his middle so her ankles can lock behind his back and their hands stretching to hold as much as they can of each other while swiveling softly to the rhythm. Their palms finally meet, with their fingers intertwined in the special way they have been for years.

Scott can feel Tessa breathing into his neck, can’t help the content sigh that escapes him.

The song ends, and it takes a few seconds for them to recognize the quiet emptiness of the rink, to realize they have to let go now. Graceful as ever, Tessa’s skates land firmly on the ice. She can’t speak, but he can, and it’s a question complete with only a little hesitation and a few stutters.

“Come over for dinner tonight?”

 

**_In his kitchen, he will hand-feed you_ **

**_a piece of red pepper. His laugh_ **

**_will be low and warm and it will make you_ **

**_feel like candlelight. Do not think this is special._ **

**_Do not count on your fingers the number_ **

**_of freckles you could kiss too easily._ **

 

**_When he hugs you goodbye,_ **

**_let him kiss you on the forehead._ **

**_Settle for target practice._ **

 

They have choreographed entire free dances right here, in front of his oven, by the light of his microwave.

His kitchen only brings back fond memories. Memories of good food and laughs, with just enough space to lock eyes and circle around each other- always under the pretense of a joke until it isn’t anymore- until the chicken in the oven is overcooked or the eggs in the pan turn black and start smoking. 

“Mind grabbing the forks?” He says over his shoulder, focusing on cutting the vegetables for their meal. She immediately opens the silverware drawer to his right, grabbing what they need and setting them delicately on the table. She adds folded napkins and wine glasses next to their water glasses, only for him to whistle appreciatively when he sets the food on the table.

“Nice set dressing, Tess. Feeling fancy tonight, eh?”

She giggles and sits down across from him, waiting until he joins her to put her feet up on his lap, wiggling until she’s comfortable. “Only the most sophisticated dinners with you, of course.”

He pretends be annoyed by her socket toes wiggling while he eats, but it relaxes him in a way nothing else does. “I feel like I haven’t talked to you all week. How was the launch party?”

Tessa cringes for a moment, knowing he’s referencing the Nivea event and _the lotion helps him hang on to me, I swear!_ interview, but he would never make fun of her sponsorship deals, knows how important they are to her. “Really good, actually. The meetings leading up to it were longer than they should’ve been, but the party was fun and the hotel they put me in was incredible. The tub had jets, Scott. When I checked in they had a full bouquet of chocolate and like, twenty bottles of lotion waiting for me.” She stops herself before she goes into further detail about the night of relaxation she had, leaving the possibilities hanging in the air between them.

“Oh, uh, that’s awesome. I saw some pictures, it looked fun. Sorry I couldn’t be there,” he pauses for a second. “Wait, twenty bottles of lotion? Do me a favor and sponsor someone really cool next time, okay? Any chance Guinness  wants to put you in their commercials?” He teases her at the prospect of free beer.

“Sorry, doesn't it look like it. And before you ask, I doubt the Leafs are hiring cheerleaders or jersey models, so it looks like you’re out of luck,” she laughs while he sarcastically nods his head in disapproval.

“Hey, don’t sell yourself short! They would be crazy to sideline Tessa Virtue. You’d be a great substitute for William Nylander!”

“Hey, that’s your idea for retirement, not mine.”

The mention of retirement breaks him from that jovial attitude for a moment, and he sets his fork down on his plate. “Hey, any ideas for the post-Olympic life are more than welcome.”

The discouragement in his voice kills her, and for a moment she lets every other thought go so she can reach across the delicious meal he cooked for her to brush his hair back and place her hand on his cheek. “You have a plan, Scott. You’re a great coach- those kids love you, worship you- and you’re happiest around family, I know you are, even if you won’t-”

“I know, I know. It is nice to bother Danny from the same city. But you’re jetsetting! I feel like I should be, I don’t know, doing something other than teaching toe loops. I- I feel like I’m letting you down a little.” 

She does not take this for an answer, does not think when she blurts out a response. “You know you could never let me down.”

He laughs, maybe a little uncomfortably, and tries to lighten the mood. “Even if all I did was sit on the couch and eat ice cream all day? I could be as big as a bus?”

Her eyes firmly refuse to leave his. “Never.”

She helps him clean up, drying dishes after he washes and putting everything back in its place like it’s her own. The only thing that gives her pause is the pink floral mug sitting next to his black ones in the cabinet- definitely not his, and surely not hers, so really could only belong to one other person. Tessa doesn’t want to think too hard on the idea, so she ignores the tiny feminine touches that were not present the last time she was here. Looks past the vase of flowers he would’ve definitely killed by now, the new throw pillows added to the couch, and worse- the spare toothbrush in the bathroom.

They talk and talk and occasionally break out into little dances, but the night has to end eventually. He laments not being able to send her home with any real food, like always, and she rolls her eyes and reiterates her ability to take care of herself, still with a gentle smile on her face like always.

“See you tomorrow, T?” He asks softly, pulling her in for a hug. He’d asked her to help him demonstrate a few different lifts for his juniors a while ago, claiming Danny was a poor substitute for what he was used to. It hadn’t taken much for her to say yes.

She smiles softly into his chest even though her can’t see her, gripping his waist and shoulder respectively until it feels like it’s been too long to continue. “Of course, I’ll be there.”

“Bright and early, too!” He adds enthusiastically despite her groan. “Don’t worry, your payment will be in caffeine. Flat white, right?” He winks at her, knowing it was and probably still is the wrong guess.

“Yeah, actually, that sounds good. See you tomorrow!” The surprise of her agreement is evident on his face even as she turns to leave.

She likes that she can still do that.

What she hates is how sad this makes her feel, hates how tiny and dependent and _girlish_ sentiments like these paint her. She supposes she can’t blame him for this- he has no idea what he’s doing to her.

Because despite twenty years between them, it still bears repeating to herself: _Scott Moir is not a mind reader._

He may know when she’s sick or too tired or when she needs coffee (always, she always needs coffee) but he cannot know the feeling she gets when he gently kisses her on the forehead in front of his door when she leaves after dinner or the large exhale she has to take to clear him from her mind as she steps onto the pavement outside his apartment building.

He cannot know the way her heart feels too high, shoved up into her throat she when she unlocks her own door, stepping into her beautifully decorated, clean, white living room. It’s not emptiness she feels, no, not that. She’s never been less of a person without him- she is still Tessa Virtue, still the woman who studies and works hard and achieves and has five Olympic medals hanging in her hallway. It’s more of a dullness, a weight that she can’t sense until it’s gone and he’s standing beside her.

 

**_You will want to call him._ **

**_You will go as far as holding the phone_ **

**_in your hand, imagine telling him_ **

**_unimaginable things like you are always_ **

**_ticking inside of me and I dream of you_ **

**_more often than I don’t._ **

 

**_My body is a dead language_ **

**_and you pronounce_ **

**_each word perfectly._ **

 

The cramp in her legs only begins to lessen after an hour or two.

Thankfully, this feeling is an irregularity these days, only coming the times she pushes herself too hard, doesn’t get to stretch in the morning, or sleeps in the tight little ball her body insists upon do they really seize like they used to.

Her muscle roller doesn’t help, and ice pack she places on it just becomes lukewarm after a few minutes, so she lays on the stack of decorative pillows on her bed, not bothering to move them out of the way like she always does. Just sits and stares at the ceiling, counting the tiles she’s become more familiar with lately.

Every few minutes, she hisses in pain and goes to coax the muscles, but the half-hearted massages she gives them don’t do Scott’s justice.

She debates calling him, knows he would be mad if she hid it, determined to go it alone- God knows their counselor has heard him say the same things over and over again when it came to her legs, but she can’t bring herself to do it. She refuses to hit speed dial number one, refuses the inevitable massage and the distracting banter and the hugs of comfort that would come from that call, denies herself her best friend who’s probably having dinner with his girlfriend right now and would not like to be disturbed.

Instead, she reaches her arm to her nightstand for the remote to turn on the latest episode of whatever reality television show is on, calls Jordan, and asks her to come over.

Her sister, of course, picks up after the second ring, hears the words “leg cramps” and “The Bachelor” and tells her she’ll be over in twenty minutes, only stopping for ice cream and ace bandages. “Tessa, don’t move a muscle, okay?”

Thankfully, Jordan waits an hour later, longer than Tessa thought she would last, almost until the rose ceremony is over, to ask. “Why didn’t you call Scott?”

Jordan is not an idiot. She can see the way her sister constantly checks her vibrating phone, never responding. The reluctance to talk, in favor of watching a cheesy group date in silence, only shifting to relieve pressure in her legs.

“I just… couldn’t.” She starts and finishes there.

“Okay.”

She falls asleep halfway into the next episode, gratefully using Jordan’s shoulder as a pillow. Her dreams are loud and colorful and confusing, possibly due to her low tolerance for pain medication Jordan had made her indulge in. She sees herself and Scott skating on ice with the olympic rings colored on it, completing lift after flawless lift, until everything changes. She looks down at her own body to see a sparkly evening gown, and Scott surrounded by so many other women dressed exactly like her, as if they’re all on The Bachelor, and Scott’s handing out roses to everyone except her. She hears Stephanie, her vibrant pink dress shining brighter than everyone else’s, ask her where her rose is.

She dreams of doing dishes, just like every other time they’ve done dishes together, but his chest is pressed tightly against her back this time and his arms are looped around her waist, swaying with her slowly, humming softly in her ear. 

They are sitting on his bed, under a mountain of blankets, her head pillowed on his shoulder and their legs intertwined like there is no world outside of this, of _them._  

A seven year old Tessa gets kissed for the very first time, wobbling in her skate guards, looking up at an already tree-tall Scott as he blushes and looks anywhere but into her eyes. 

Eventually, we all wake up.

Tessa rises at noon the next day to Jordan bringing her a steaming mug and a plate of toast for her to scarf down,

“You talked a lot in your sleep last night, Tessie,” she giggles while sister sips her tea. “Have any fun dreams?”

Tessa blames the pain meds, murmurs something about a pink dress and keeps eating.

She doesn’t admit that, yeah, the pain meds probably made it a little wackier than usual, maybe a little too vivid for comfort, but dreaming about Scott is kind of her new normal.

 

**_Do not call him._ **

**_Fall asleep to the hum of the VCR._ **

**_She must make him happy._ **

**_She must be_ **

**_She must be his favorite place in Minneapolis._ **

**_You are a souvenir shop, where he goes_ **

**_to remember how much people miss him_ **

**_when he is gone._ **

 

_What’s the name of that fancy restaurant we went to last year? With the tiny crab cakes?_ he texts her one afternoon, as she lands from yet another business trip.

_La Cafe Des Lilas?_ Tessa shoots back automatically, rolling her eyes at the lack of respect over those delicious crab cakes.

_That’s it!_

_Six month anniversary tonight. Any tips?_  

She knows what kind of advice he’s asking for, but goes for a safe, planning tip instead. _Ask for the outdoor seating, it’s a nice night and their patio is beautiful_

Her lack of complete punctuation piques his interest, but he thanks her for the suggestion nonetheless. _You’re the best, T._

She hopes so. She’s certainly been trying to be. Trying to be supportive, kind, and busy enough to take her mind off of the fact that it’s their six month anniversary and he’s probably wearing a suit and buying her flowers and doing that thing where he puts his hand gently on her knee on the car ride there-

_Hope you guys have fun._ It’s lackluster, she knows, but it’s the best she can do right now, as she throws her luggage in a taxi and begins the drive home, glancing at her phone only once more.

_Are we still on for the rink tomorrow? The kids have been dying to see you!_

She doesn’t know if she can do it anymore.

She’s in her own head too much now- _unusual, for the ice queen_ , she thinks bitterly- and this time there’s no team of highly trained specialists to plan her diet, to track her sleeping patterns, to talk to when things got to be too much.

So while there’s no B2Ten, there is a full bottle of white wine and a DVD of the 2005 version of Pride and Prejudice. This, for tonight, will do.

Tessa unlocks her empty apartment, ignoring the dust that’s started to collect on most of her kitchen appliances. She pours herself a glass, turns off her phone, unwraps the whole bar of chocolate in front of her like she’s scarcely let herself do in the past year, and makes it to her favorite part of the movie without falling asleep.

(It’s the scene where the stage is set for the end- Bingley and Darcy are back at Netherfield, the Lydia and Wickham scandal has been cleared up, and Lady Catherine has just been told off by Lizzie herself. Darcy pretends to be Jane so Bingley can rehearse his proposal- sure, it’s not Colin Firth stepping out of the pond in the white shirt, but it’s still pretty great.)

She wakes up to the credits rolling across her screen and the doorbell ringing. 

Blindly grabbing the blanket she had been laying under and wrapping it around herself as she stumbles sleepily towards the door, she notices how dark it still is through her window. She looks through the peephole first.

Scott’s staring back at her, then hits the doorbell once more.

Tessa swings open the door before he can wake up her whole floor and whatever he’s about to say flies straight out of his head. She’s rumpled and warm, fingers trying to push the hair that’s fallen in front of her face, absolutely _gorgeous_ exactly like this. Words skip and leap out of his mouth without his permission.

“Did you check your phone?”

She rubs the sleep from her eyes and looks at him like he’s insane. “ _Hi_ , Scott.”

“Tessa, did you check your phone?”

“No, actually. I fell asleep with it off. Why, is everything okay?” She stops yawning and stretching to look worried, searching for any bruises or injuries or signs of concern.

He can do nothing except take her in his arms at once, engulfed in her scent that’s a little different because of her hours spent on a plane today but so undeniably _Tessa,_ not able to help the way his hands splay wide on her waist and back and shoulders and neck because they don’t know what to touch first. They slowly amble in this hold until her back hits kitchen counter and she sucks in a breath, biting her bottom lip. Her blanket is at their feet, and while he’s in the navy suit that’s always been her favorite, she’s just got her shorts and a thin shirt that originally belonged to him but has long since called her drawer home.

“Tessa,” he breathes reverently, leaning his forehead against her own. “Is this okay?”

It shouldn’t be. So, so many reasons- partnership and their longstanding denial that there was nothing here and _oh god, Stephanie_ \- give her pause. But she can’t help herself.

She nods only for a second before his lips come crashing down on hers, and Tessa has never felt more loved.


	2. what is the sky if not my body, a home for your open and boastful wing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is the word for a bird  
> already stunning in its’ sitting from  
> opening its wings, and the watcher loses their breath?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> First off, huge thank you to everyone who left me feedback on the first chapter. You all are so nice and you have no idea how much it brightened my day! I’m sorry this chapter is so delayed- school and work and three hour ice dance marathons on youtube really get in the way of writing.
> 
> This time around, I was so inspired by Olivia Gatwood’s poem “Ode to my lover’s left hand”. She might be my favorite poet of all time, and I strongly encourage you to listen to the full version of this one and all of the others she has (especially “Ode to the women on Long Island”, because damn can that girl do an accent).

 

**There comes a moment on the first night**

**after the first of everything,**

**that you admit the unremarkable talent of your right hand.**

**And what you don’t know is that in** **_this_ ** **moment,**

**every constellation evolves into a different picture.**

**Orion’s belt moves it’s bookend parts to the base,**

**pushes the middle star to the top to form a triangle**

**What I’m saying is, if this right hand is not your best bet, then nothing is what it claims to be.**

**Suddenly, everything that calls itself ordinary must be a miracle**

**The romance novels at Walgreens must be a bible**

**cafeteria food prepared by the finest chefs**

**your apartment is Boston’s most coveted museum.**

**But this is not an ode to your right hand,**

**the one you call unnatural,**

**yet somehow knows how to move like a cartographer over the map of me.**

 

Alma Moir will claim, one day, that she knew from the very beginning.

She knew that on a cold day in Ilderton, way back when, that the combination was as obvious as a bright neon arrow, practically pointing them in the same direction. When they took the ice for the first time, it was like she could feel the display cases on cases she’d eventually have to buy for the medals these two would win (“ _Kate, we’re going to be very popular in the frame aisle at JoAnn’s, I can feel it already!”)_.

She’ll say that she knew these two would fit together like two puzzle pieces, both different at first glance, but able to work together to achieve something so great.

Alma will say this and choose, in that moment, to ignore the quiet laugh that comes from her husband right next to her, and some sarcastic mutter about all the years they spent paying for their teenage son to go to relationship counseling. _  
_

So the next time a Moir family gathering occurs just a few weeks after the Olympics, she insists her son make the trip for the weekend, not ashamed to put on a guilt-forward tone next time they’re on the phone. To his surprise, she barely reacts at his news of his new girlfriend, only stopping to mention a desire to see _his beautiful partner again._ At this point, Scott knows his mother and knows it’s futile to resist, so he clears his plans and texts Tessa immediately.

_Hey jetsetter, any chance you’re free to come home this weekend?_

She texts back immediately, and before he knows it, they’re throwing their bags into his truck and arguing over the radio station.

“You know the plan, right?” She asks him one more time as they pull into his parent’s driveway, the familiar streets of Ilderton already bringing them comfort.

He rolls his eyes, but can’t help his smile as he recites it. “It’s the same as it always it, Tess. I distract my mother when she offers to teach you how to cook part of the meal, and you tell me the names of my distant family members that I can never remember.”

“Well, it’s obvious we both have our talents.”

“Yeah, and yours is limiting my desire to drink at these things,” he jokes, perpetually thankful that they are not only synchronized on the ice, especially when one of his great aunts hug him and he has no idea who they are.

Of course, his mother hugs Tessa first as soon as the front door is thrown open, another part of their routine. They get shoved upstairs to freshen up before the whole family can descend upon them, if only to avoid fifteen “So, where are your medals?” at once.

There’s only so much cheek pinching an adult can take.

Tessa can still remember the first time she came over here, sat down in his room with the door wide open, Scott shifting back and forth on each foot before finally deciding to stop being a baby. He had decisively grabbed the plate of cookies that his mother had left for them, sat next to her on the couch, and they helped each other with math homework.

(until, of course, the conversation strayed far away from anything productive, and more silly than anything else. Alma still remembers the time she came home to two teenagers attempting to bake brownies- her oven still has the scorch marks.)

She smiles every time she walks into his old room- it hasn’t changed much. His favorite sports players still cover the walls, only broken up by a few female pop stars he would’ve never admitted liking to anyone else.

“Hey, Virtue, I don’t want one word about the Sarah McLachlan poster, do you hear me?” He shouts from the hallway, slowly bringing their bags up the stairs. “You beat that horse to death last year!”

She stops herself, one chorus away from “I will remember you” from being on her own when it came to helping in the kitchen, when she spots a new addition to his nightstand. There have been two framed pictures sitting there for as long as she can remember- one of Scott and his brothers on the ice, each of them in all of their usual hockey padding and sticks, the other one a sentimental favorite of hers, a childhood photo of them taking the ice at one of their very first competitions.

A third has been added to the mix, one that really highlights their growth from the dorky ice dancing outfits, with feathers and rhinestones and too much mom-applied makeup. It’s right after the music of Moulin Rouge ended, the exact moment they hugged out of nothing but pure joy. Tessa’s arms wrapped around Scott, his strong arms lifting her skates right off the ice.

She smiles, her heart warmed at the memory.

“What’s that?” He spots her from the doorway, frame in hand, and he joins her, both of them sitting on the edge of his bed.

“She must’ve just added that one,” he says like he’s in a museum, tracing the outline of the frame she holds. In a second they’re transported to the chilly rink in Korea, and she can almost feel the way his hand gripped her bare back after the final note ended.

“This is why I can’t rewatch it just yet.”

He nods, completely understanding her. After two years of rigorous training, picking apart piece by piece of this dance, he knows what they’ll do- or, more specifically, what she’ll do. Overanalyze every dismount, step sequence and twizzle, until she can find something to pick apart. He doesn’t want that for her, not yet.

What he has watched, however, is the after. The yell he lets out when the final ranking is announced throughout the rink, the way he hugs her so tight, like there’s no one else watching. The way she laugh-cried at the podium, silly little stuffed animal still clutched between them, trying to take it all in, remember it forever.

“It still feels like a dream,” he comments, plucking the frame from her fingers and placing it back on his nightstand, offering his own hand to her instead.

She takes it gracefully and only hesitates for a moment before before they both stand, and places her other hand on his shoulder like they’re seven and nine again, awkward in their movement.

His eyebrows raise. “Oh, middle school dance rules, eh, T?”

She giggles as he pulls her closer, swaying to the faint sound of chatter as more people join the party downstairs, but nothing can pull him from this. He has his best friend, his gold medal, and  cannot be bothered to want much more.

But then, she tucks her head under his chin, and he feels like a kid holding her hand for the first time all over again, not sure what to do with all that’s she’s giving him. His hand moves to wrap around her waist, and she sighs, content in his tiny childhood bedroom.

They are pressed flush together, and he cannot breathe. If he breathes, he might mess up the moment that she’s instigated, and he will not be the one to break them apart right now. He knows Tessa hates birds, but he can’t help compare the two- one wrong move, and he’s afraid of her flying away. Her hands move from their perch atop his shoulders to run up and down his back, touching every centimeter of skin with gentle reverence, like she’s on borrowed time with it.

Their movement together is almost nonexistent, abandoning their dance just being together, and Scott becomes even more still when he thinks he feels the faint brush of her lips against his chest. She looks up at him as he inhales sharply, green eyes searching for an answer in the brown-

when his mother stomps up the rickety stairs and breaks them out of their moment, and he feels like it was the shoe he was waiting to drop. They jump apart quickly, Tessa ending up all the way back to the other side of the room, near the closet, when the footsteps get closer.

“Tessa, honey, how would you like to learn to bake a pumpkin pie?” Alma calls excitedly from the doorway, seemingly unaware of the incredible amount of tension swirling around them.

Tessa nods without a word and barely takes a second to glance back at Scott before following his mother down the stairs. Gently shutting the door behind her, he can hear his mother already chatting with her.

“I absolutely love your hair when it’s down like that, Tessa. And your sweater! You must tell me-”

Scott can do nothing more but stand in his bedroom, surrounded by their entire history, and wish for the braveness he had when he last lived in this room- a teenager, cocky in his walk and in his talk, not considering the danger of jumping into whatever came around the corner.

Because in all the growing up he’s done, _they’ve_ done, he cannot help but remind himself the thing he knows for sure- nothing has changed.

_(Does he want it to? Should he want it to?)_

What he does not know, is that his mother kicks herself for weeks after that interruption.

“Joe, they really were so close, I swear something would’ve happened if I hadn’t-”

Her husband chuckles at her words, thinking back to every early morning his son would leave the house before the sun rose, an almost impossible feat at the time, making sure he had plenty of time to get coffee for that girl. Every birthday card he watched him write in his best, most careful handwriting. Every late night he would turn a blind eye to the two children stuck in front of a computer, watching and rewatching their old programs, each with wide, persuasive eyes and Tessa’s polite _“We’ll go to sleep soon, Mr. Moir!”_

“If I know anything, it’s that they will be just fine, dear.”

 

**What is the word for something becoming more than whole?**

**What is the word for a bird**

**already stunning in its’ sitting from**

**opening its wings and the watcher loses their breath**

**Is it believing wholy in your breath, until you reach sea level and learn how easy breath can be**

**Is it just the word shine? Is it bloom? What is more beautiful than a hand, alive, nimble and reaching?**

**Ode to my lover’s left hand**

**is an ode to their voice in the shower, an ode to the unlocking of our thought to be open throats.**

 

It’s hilarious to him that people don’t think they understand what they look like, what their reputation is. In all of the glamour and fanfare, it seems as though they forget the countless sessions of almost-marriage counseling, the hours on a couch talking to a sports psychologist in a _“but how does that make you feel, Scott?”_ kind of way.

He thinks of this when he watches her skate. And it’s so obvious, especially now- if other people think he’s never considered picking her up and never letting her go, then they must think he’s an idiot. She is the artist out of the two of them, the one who never fails to be lighter than air whether she’s in skates or pointe shoes, and it’s never been more clear as he watches her skate.

It’s a snowy day in Montreal, and most people have abandoned the rink for the warmth of their own homes. They are finally done for now, attempting to put the finishing touches on some touring pieces. It’s the choreography Scott has a little more trouble with than Tessa, so when Sam offers them an early night, he eagerly takes it before he starts to dread the hip hop sequences of _Rock My Word_ .

So he’s wrangling his smelly gym bag down the corridor, making plans to savor every single bite of his non B2Ten-approved meal tonight (one of the few good things about the post-olympic comedown) when he hears the music playing low on the speakers, barely enough to catch his attention. But, barring an ice skating burglar that loves the soundtrack to _Amelie,_ he thinks he knows who remains on the ice.

Scott sets down his bag as quietly as possible, and peeks into the door to the rink, unable to move his eyes from her. The rink is only half lit, so the orange tones from sunset outside cast the brunette hair whipping around the the ice in a golden glow.

Clad in her normal tight, black practice gear, hair gracefully escaping the hold of her ponytail with every turn, he thinks he has never seen anything quite so beautiful. Her ballet roots are so apparent as her arms rise and fall to the twinkling piano notes, spinning and stretching and waltz-stepping so well Scott has half a mind to lace up his skates and join her.

He thinks back to the time she begged him to watch this movie with her and he thinks he’ll have to now if it means he can see her smile along to the tune like she is now.

“Watching people that don’t know you’re watching them is creepy, Scott,” she calls out to him, a cheeky smile on her face. This shakes him from his reverie, realizing his place as the darkly lit guy hiding in the doorway, and walks down to the boards, only slightly stumbling down the steps. _Get a grip, Moir._

“Sorry, I, uh, heard you-”

She just giggles harder at this, unused to her partner so red faced. “It’s okay, really. I was just fooling around, I guess. Didn’t really feel like going home.”

“You were incredible,” he says without any uncertainty. “Almost makes me wonder for my job security- you’d have killed as a singles skater, kiddo.”

At this, she skates over to meet him, only the boards separating them from meeting completely. She leans over the divide as far as she can in her skates and embraces him tightly, somehow knowing this is exactly what his exhausted body needed, and whispers low in his ear.

“I could never leave you.”

Something about this strikes him hard, and no words leave his mouth as he hugs her tighter, wanting to admonish himself on the fact that he recently won two gold medals with this woman and he’s still worried that one day she will realize that she’s so much better than him.

They leave together, deciding to forego a good night’s sleep for popcorn and episodes of _The Office_ at Tessa’s, and Scott doesn’t feel as bad as he should when he notices the texts Stephanie has sent him that have gone unanswered.

 

**And then, of course,**

**before I can praise the right hand for it’s already perfect form,**

**you shine**

**or bloom**

**or become the bird in flight**

**and I lose my breath, drop my binoculars**

**don’t care that I can’t see you anymore, because what is sight, really?**

**Your hand unseeable, yes, but inside me, also**

**and what is that, if not sight?**

**What is the sky if not my body, a home for your open and boastful wing?**

 

A proposal should be a lot of things- romantic, meaningful, and special, to start with.

In his mind, a proposal would involve his grandmother’s ring, the one his family has saved for years just so he could give it to the girl of his dreams, preferably at sunset (or, as fifteen year old Scott would’ve preferred, after the Toronto Maple Leafs scored the winning goal for the Stanley Cup).

But, above all else, a proposal probably shouldn’t be last-minute.

Scott knows this when he pulls out the ring box from his sock drawer, hands shaking. He opens it almost like he thinks something will jump out at him, jack-in-the-box style, and takes a sigh of relief when it’s still there, untouched.

Not for long, he supposes.

And he really doesn’t know why he’s doing it, but he does know that he’s tired of living alone and tired of waiting to start his life when every single aunt asked him when he’d settle down with a nice girl, and damnit, Stephanie is the definition of nice.

He texts Tessa for the restaurant recommendation, remembering the beautiful patio with the fairy lights they ate at a few months ago. The memory of laughs over wine and terrible impressions of each other _(“Really, Tess? You get one chance on national television and you impersonated me drunkenly yelling at a ref?”_ ) feels like a weight in his stomach. Before he leaves, he texts her once more.

_Can you call me?_

Not sure why he does this. Not sure why her voice would give him comfort right now, not sure why her approval on this monumental decision means anything, but it’s better than obsessively picking pieces of lint off of his navy suit while he paces the length of the kitchen.

She doesn’t answer his text, but he calls anyway. Straight to voicemail.

_Tess?_

Voicemail.

_I could reallyyy use your advice right now._

Voicemail.

_Seriously, call me when you get this._

_Tessa. Tutu. T._

_I think I’m going to propose and I really need you to call me back_

Voicemail. Voicemail. Voicemail.

He meets up with Stephanie and she’s glowing, happily chatting about her day and Scott has to remind himself to smile through the nervousness because _Happy six month anniversary!_ The ring that remains securely stowed in his pocket feels like it’s in his throat, and he can’t even enjoy the cute, tiny crab cakes the waitress has put in front of them, or the nice wine he stumbled over ordering.

_Why hasn’t she called back?_

A lull in the conversation comes over the main course, and he thinks this is it, now’s the time, but his hand can’t move. It sits on his leg underneath the table, twitching towards his pocket, but never touching it. He absolutely cannot bring himself to take out that box, and he knows why- feels like an idiot, because of it, actually.

“Scott, are you okay?” Stephanie asks, looking like she already won’t believe his answer.

“Yeah, of course. Never been better.”

With her eyebrows raised, she takes a sip of her wine. “Really? Because right now, you look like you want to vomit. And it’s not because of the crab cakes.”

They both know this is coming. She’s at least known for a while- and while she should be more upset, Stephanie can’t bring herself to hate her boyfriend. It’s not his fault he doesn’t love her, at least not as much as he loves his partner _(she should’ve listened to her mother and her warning about getting involved with one half of the ‘sex on ice’ couple from the winter olympics, damnit, the ‘I told you so’ she’ll get when she tells her about this is going to be unbearable)_ just like it’s not his fault she doesn’t love him. Not like she’ll love someone else someday.

So she does him a favor. “Listen, Scott,” she starts, and he sighs ( _out of resignation? relief?)_ “I don’t think this is working out.”

He gapes at her for a second or two before his shoulders slump in agreement. “I think you’re right. I’m sorry, Stephanie.”

“It’s okay, Scott, really.” She takes his hand and forces him to look at her, making sure he can see her genuine smile. “Can we still be friends?”

He vehemently agrees, thinking he wouldn’t mind to watch a hockey game with her once in a while, and the painlessness of the separation makes him feel like an asshole.

_How did he get here?_

Scott has no idea, but he does know where he’s going next. So when they part amicably, over a giant shared slice of chocolate cake that Stephanie thought would be appropriate to order right before she broke up with him, he gets into his car and drives to her.

The windows are down, and the noise distracts him from a different kind of weight he carries now. The kind of scared, telling-your-crush-you-like-them panic that he thought only middle schoolers got.

He parks outside and takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches Tessa’s floor, the familiar nod the doorman gave him out front doing nothing to calm him. He rings the doorbell once, twice, three times, and then a bunch more times.

_Should he be worried about her? Not answering her phone and then the door? He know she got off a plane today, maybe something happened on her way home-_

The door swings open and he’s taken aback by her appearance. Sleepy, in his shirt, rumpled perfectly, just like he’s seen her thousands of times before. For the second time tonight, his usual charm leaves him.

“Did you check your phone?”

She gives him her signature look as she wakes up a little more, already annoyed with him. “ _Hi,_ Scott.” Well, she was never good with early wakeups.

“Tessa, did you check your phone?” He asks urgently, uncertainty so plain and raw. He needs to know, needs to know if she knew about his plans and if she even cared.

“No, actually. I fell asleep with it off. Why, is everything okay?”

He probably could’ve been smoother about it, but this is Tessa and actually, nothing really matters right now except for the way he takes her into his arms, gentle and reverent, like he’s afraid she’ll throw him out at any moment.

“Tessa, is this okay?”

She only has to nod for him to press his lips to hers, spurred on when he feels her hands grip his hair, the little gasps coming from her mouth like gifts she’s giving directly to him. He doesn’t have the mental capacity right now to do the kind of “self check-up” their psychologists have encouraged in the past, but if he did, he would find no kind of hesitation in the way his body fits against hers, like he knew it would and has for years. The way they melt and stretch around each other is more satisfying than anything he’s ever felt.

When they finally pull back, trying to catch their breath like they’ve skated a whole program, she does not move, she doesn not speak, she does not blink.

She stands there as if suspended in time, abandoning the perfect posture years of dance has given her, choosing to slump her whole body over his as he holds her up, as he’s always held her up. Finally, when she does elect to move, it is to put her head to his chest, tucking herself tight, right where she belongs, allowing his hands to glide over her sides. They are the places he has touched so many times before, in every lift and turn, in pursuit of every medal, but never like this. Never with so much love behind every brush.

“What about Stephanie?” She says ever so quietly, still panting from pure exhilaration, eyes almost afraid to look up at him with an answer.

“We broke up,” he mutters in her ear, eager to get the next part out before he’s sure she’ll throw him out of her apartment. “I couldn’t do it, T. I couldn’t propose, and I know this seems really shitty-”

To her credit, her shock only lasts a second as she pushes him back slightly to look up at him. “Did you just say _propose_  Scott?”

“I called you and called you, and I texted a ton, and I realized something-”

She cannot do anything but stare at his hand on her hip, thoughts going a mile a minute as she looks at it like she’s seeing it for the first time. It is so molded to her, like someone came in and tailored it to her exactly. She has always been grateful for this- for the work it took to build something so synchronized and complicated and wonderful.

In twenty years, he has made mistakes. He has turned ending poses opposite directions, been late to practices, and forced country music upon her (perhaps his greatest offense, if she doesn’t consider the amount of 80’s music she’s incessantly hummed). He has done all this and more.

But he has always caught her before she fell.

She needs to trust him to do the same here.

So Tessa sizes him up, his beautiful amber eyes, messy hair and all, and asks him the question she needs to. She ignores the feeling of her heart pumping in what feels like her throat, the sweaty palms still attached to his skin, and cannot shake the feeling that this is the bravest thing she’s ever done.

_“How long?”_

It doesn’t need clarification, he barely needs to think about the answer before his grip tightens on her waist and he leans his forehead into hers, kissing her cheek, then her nose, then the corner of her mouth, trying to stitch his love into her. It is now or never.

“Always, _T_ ess. I can’t believe it’s taken this long, but I have always lov-”

She doesn’t even let him finish, beating him to the punch with a whisper to his ear, lips barely grazing his skin. He can feel every syllable spilling out of her and it takes his brain a moment to processes.

“I love you.”

Her hips arch against his, breathing turning ragged, pressing herself against him in every way possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! Feedback would be so much appreciated. Because of my inability to plan ahead, I misjudged the length of this- there will be one more chapter, an epilogue of sorts, so keep an eye out for that.
> 
> Come be friends with me on tumblr: @lucyrinner

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading, and thank you to all the others in this fandom who make it so much fun to be a part of. Part two will be here as soon as I can stop squealing over Rock My World and You Will Be Found.


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